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Rh In thundering “lofty-low” by Shiell,
 * Or mad Maturin’s mock-heroics.

Away with passion’s withering kiss,
 * A purer spell be thine to win us;

Unlock the fount of holiness While gentle Pity weeps in bliss,
 * And hearts throb sweetly sad within us.

Or call those smiles again to thee
 * That shone upon the lip that won them,

Like sun-drops on a summer-sea, When waters ripple pleasantly
 * To wanton winds that flutter o’er them.

When Pity wears her willow-wreath,
 * Let Desdemona’s woes be seen;

Sweet Beverly’s confiding faith, Or Juliet, loving on in death,
 * Or uncomplaining Imogen.

When wit and mirth their temples bind
 * With thistle-shafts o’erhung with flowers,

Then quaint and merry Rosalind, Beatrice with her April mind
 * And Dinah’s simple heart be ours.

For long thy modest orb has been
 * Eclipsed by heartless, cold parade;